


Knife’s Edge

by platypusesrneat



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 00:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15919578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platypusesrneat/pseuds/platypusesrneat
Summary: They’re both a little rough, but together they melt.





	Knife’s Edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Firebull](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firebull/gifts).



It was a thing for them—to speak words that seemed like daggers but were always more comfort than hurt. They never hurt each other, because both Stiles and Isaac knew what pain really did. Stiles took Isaac in and sheltered him as well as he can--and to both of their relief, John did as well.

 

It’s not like Isaac can’t take care of himself. His dad leaving him to fend for himself proved that he didn’t have a choice. Not really. So it’s really a relief for Stiles to see him let them cook or wash his clothes for him. Because they know what a big deal that is.

 

“Hey asshole,” Stiles greets when Isaac walks into his bedroom, but he pauses. The bruises under his eyes have gotten darker, and as skinny as he already was, Isaac has lost weight. “Shit. Come here, I need to look—“

 

Isaac lets out a broken sob.

 

“How bad?”

 

With the hand that hasn’t already begun hastily wiping his eyes, he holds up a shaky four fingers. Stiles stops breathing for a moment.

 

“ _ Four hours?! _ ”

 

Yelling is obviously the wrong thing to do, because Isaac dissolves back into whimpering sobs that wrack his small frame. So Stiles, easy as breathing, envelops him in a hug.

 

“It’s not your fault,” he says, and tries not to let his rage show at whose fault it is. “I’m gonna fix this for you.”

 

Stiles first gets him to the bathroom and checks Isaac head to toe. There’s nothing worth going to the hospital about (thank God), but he still tends to the wounds with a delicacy he’s never been treated with himself. He thought he’d feel vindictive about that fact, but really he’s just relieved that he can take care of Isaac to begin with.

 

That he’s here.

 

Softly, Stiles kisses Isaac and leads him to the kitchen, where Isaac’s favorite snacks and food is. There’s a need in Stiles to provide for the boy, and really, there’s no need to fight it once Isaac comes to him.

 

John comes home to them watching TV (some rerun that’s been on for nearly a decade) and Isaac curled into his son’s stomach. He’s asleep, and from the looks of it he really needed it.

 

“We have to do something. It’s getting worse, and I’m scared that one day—one day he won’t make it. You can only hurt someone so much until they break dad,” Stiles pleads, a sense of urgency and protectiveness in his voice.

 

John’s nod is fast and sharp, because how can he deny his son—and the boy he’s long considered his son—the justice of a child abuser? He just needs to contact the judge, maybe drop the name ‘Lahey’ into their mind.

 

“I’ll make some phone calls. Need help taking him to bed?”

 

“No, I’m good.”

  
  
  
  


Isaac wakes up to screaming, but for the first time in weeks, it’s not his own. At first it’s a groggy haze, even through the yelling, but then he knows that it’s—

 

“Stiles! Come on, wake up!”

 

He tears off the blankets and leans over Stiles, ignoring the yelling, the thrashing, the scratch of nail on his cheek. It takes several minutes of coaxing, but he manages to get Stiles back to consciousness and calmed down.

 

“You’re hurt. Shit, let me get the first aid,” he croaks, then moves to stand. Isaac gets in his way and tugs him back into laying down.

 

“I’m fine. I know after that happens, you like hugs. So, I just…”

 

And suddenly he has an armful of Stiles in his lap. They both settle back down easily enough, resting easier together than they ever had apart, even with medicine or alcohol or any other number of methods. Stiles says they’re healing, Isaac says they’re coping.

 

For both, the way forward is one step at a time.

 

John arrests Isaac’s father, but not before he has to be held back from trying to kick his ass. Isaac and Stiles both agree to testify in court, and when the trial comes, they’re armed with years of evidence and witnesses.

 

Isaac becomes a constant presence in their life. Curly hair and wide blue eyes (no longer like deer in headlights when there are sudden movements or raised voices) fill Stiles’s days with joy. Even when the rough nights hit—and oh do they, with shattered windows and bloody arms—Stiles is content knowing that really, Isaac takes care of him just as much.

 

He lets him ramble when he needs to, whether he’s just bored, tired, or has a rough day. He starts replacing Stiles as the cook in the Stilinski (now Stilinski-Lahey, but it’s a matter of time until it’s all Stilinski), bringing meals to John if Stiles is busy researching the next big bad, and so much more.

 

The others don’t understand. Allison looks perplexed, and Scott looks downright mystified, puppy face and all. Erica pouts, and Boyd silently judges them all with Derek. But that’s ok, because no one needs to understand.

 

“Hey asshole,” Stiles greets like always, a smile and voice that completely contradicts his words. Isaac laughs, and Stiles’s face lights up.

 

“Hey bastard,” Isaac says gleefully, pecking him on the lips.

 

They continue like that for a while, and John watches them with a smile on his face. They’re his boys, after all, and seeing them safe and happy make him overcome with happiness himself.

  
  


Stiles is gripping Isaac’s hand so hard it’s turning a mixture of pink and white, the pressure obviously uncomfortable. He never falters, though, his jaw set with a determination to find a way to ground the only person who listened to the crying and tended to the scrapes.

 

_ I’m his anchor _ , Isaac says to himself, and when he helps push Stiles into the ice bath, their connection is everything and nothing at the same time, like a state of half-wakefulness.

 

He wants to beg Stiles to come back, that he’s risked enough, but that’s never been enough for his Stiles. Not for either of them, really.

 

The thought is the sweetest knife’s edge.


End file.
